So. I’m home.

My home, that is. Dubai.

Dusty weird place as usual. The Mos Eisley of the Middle East.

A grudging affection there, I’m sure you can tell.

And masses and masses of memories and complexes and wounds so deep I’d forgotten they existed.

Yeah. Wounds.

It hasn’t been fun being here. I’m surrounded by family and I put on a smiling face. But really I’m tired, sad and I want to go home.

But I have no home anymore. I’ve been trying to wrap my head around that fact for a decade.

It all comes back to me here. Giving myself anxiety disorder trying to get the best grades I could.  It being worth not a damn thing when I graduated in the face of the recession.

Job application, updating CVs/LinkedIn still make me sick.

I did everything I was told to and still had zero security.

So I decided to do exactly what I please.

Of course, damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Apparently being a hijabi worked against me in the job front too. Because I look like this:

And not this:

Everyday a new fear. Everyday a new joy. I miss my mother. I miss the city I knew. Or the person I was as a kid. I wish I had more time to know my mother. But Dubai not so much. We’re still friends, I guess. But no, this isn’t home.

I feel a desperation here. Like I’m struggling to keep my head above water.

Why don’t I just let myself sink? Maybe the bottom of the sea isn’t so bad.

I feel like a child trying desperately to hold onto the apron strings. But there is no apron.

I have to accept I’m adrift. A little frightened. A little wary. But not stupid. And not alone. Despite what has gone before. Despite what ‘authority figures’ have tried to convince me of. Despite what I used to believe about myself.

Welcome home, deep sea creature.